Chapter 688 - Our Cause
"Quite simple, actually." Rando leaned back. Beyond loading emergency weapons and supplies onto the lifeboat, he and Hale had packed a second set of emergency provisions in a magnetic box and clamped it to the ship's hull.
"Anyone who can dive two or three meters can retrieve it easily at low tide."
Lin Chuanqing laughed. "You really are a cunning bastard."
"If I weren't cunning enough, I'd have died a dozen times over. When you're taking risks, always have a backup plan."
"Well said." Qian Shuiting poured soda for everyone. "Let's drink to tomorrow's success."
Rando raised his bottle. "To my ticket price."
The Navy motorboat chugged through the water trailing black exhaust, towing behind it an enormous cigar-shaped object encrusted with barnacles and marine growth. At first glance, it resembled a dying whale or some strange sea beast bobbing listlessly in the swells. Yellow oil drums had been lashed in rows along both flanks for additional buoyancy.
Two rowboats packed with Marines and sailors followed at a cautious distance, their task to monitor the object and prevent any mishaps.
The massive cylinder was carefully guided into the shallows until it grounded. Sailors leapt from the boats and waded waist-deep through the water, using poles and pulleys to maneuver it onto the beach rails and haul it slowly up to the pier. A curious crowd gathered in a ring around it.
"Not bad at all." Qian Shuiting lowered his binoculars and lit a cigarette. "Who would have guessed you'd dropped a caisson in the waters off Dongsha? Without the coordinates you provided, we'd never have found it."
"When we released it, a marker buoy floated up to log the position," Weiss said. "Of course, no buoy survives three years in open water. We'd drifted off course toward Dongsha—thought for certain we'd encounter Taiwan Coast Guard patrol boats and face inspection. In the rush, we decided to drop it."
"No wonder your ship's stern was configured as a ramp," Meng De said, "with that long track running from behind the bridge all the way aft, and a crane mounted under the gantry mast. I'd assumed it was for deploying fishing skiffs. You're telling me you kept this thing—more than half the ship's length—sitting up there the entire voyage?"
The former mercenary nodded.
"If you'd been paying attention to certain details when salvaging the Maquarello, you might have guessed there was more cargo. Of course, without precise coordinates, recovering anything from the sea floor is nearly impossible."
Qian Shuiting drew deep on his cigarette. The glowing butt arced from his fingers into the surf. "Come along, Mr. Weiss. Let's see what gifts you've brought us."
The salvaged caisson had been pushed into a newly erected shed, still dripping seawater. Constructed of double-layered steel plate, its massive cigar shape was blanketed in attached marine life. In the dim interior light, it looked like some bizarre misshapen reef.
The atmosphere was electric—inside and out, the excitement mirrored the day they'd raised Vessel A. A stepladder was propped against the hull. Gao Xiaosong and his team climbed to the caisson's crown, scraping away layers of barnacles and waterproof sealant from the cargo hatch with their knives. The wheel spun. With a series of metallic clangs, the hatch slowly opened. The watching crowd cheered and surged forward, everyone eager for the first glimpse.
Only Weiss remained outside, lounging beneath a coconut palm with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
The cargo hold was slightly damp but had not flooded. "What's this?" Gao Xiaosong pried open a sealed iron box and extracted a rectangular package wrapped in dark green aluminum-plastic film—it resembled an oversized bar of soap, stamped with English lettering. He switched on his headlamp and examined it closely.
Zhou Weisen leaned in. "That's a 1.25-pound block of C4 explosive." He pulled back the waterproof tarp and counted the crates. "My God—there's a mountain of it!"
The towering stack of explosives sent many of the enthusiastic spectators scrambling back. Everyone knew American military-grade demolition material was far safer than Lingao's homemade dynamite, but standing next to a small hill of high explosive still unnerved most people.
When Weiss finally strolled into the shed, Qian Shuiting was brandishing an ugly stub-nosed weapon freshly unpacked from a crate.
"What a disappointment! I was hoping for tactical nuclear warheads. You planned to scam the Karen Army with this garbage? Truly a heartless arms dealer."
"Looks like a submachine gun," Gao Xiaosong said, turning the weapon over in his hands. A toy-like receiver assembled from plastic shells, a stock fashioned from bent wire that folded beneath the body. The crate also held several translucent plastic drum magazines. Since arriving and dealing with the gun-savvy North Americans, the former Coast Guard captain had discovered just how deficient his firearms knowledge truly was.
"MGV-176," Qian Shuiting identified it. "Yugoslav copy of the American-180. Police-grade equipment. Decent rate of fire, reasonable accuracy in full-auto. But the .22 ammunition is far too weak to be useful."
"Why fuss over a few submachine guns?" The former mercenary crossed his arms and leaned against a support pillar. "If you needed them, your factories could mass-produce Stens or M3 grease guns. After all, you're not short on ammunition."
"Ammunition is precisely what we're short of. If we could mass-produce cartridges, we'd already be manufacturing AKs."
Weapons emerged from the cargo hold one by one for inventory. Beyond the disappointing MGV-176s, the subsequent haul proved far more satisfying. Over twenty gleaming M240B machine guns were laid out in rows on the ground, barrels and components still coated in rust-preventive oil. FAL automatic rifles—fixed-stock standard-barrel variants equipped with bipods, and folding-stock short-barrel carbine versions—numbered 316 in total, all factory-sealed in shrink wrap. Crates of ammunition packed the hold's center section. Apart from the .22 LR rounds for the submachine guns, everything else was 7.62×51mm NATO, sealed in purpose-built polyester containers. Zhou Weisen, Gao Xiaosong, and Planning Committee representative Sun Xiao clambered up and down with their helpers, tallying the count—over a hundred crates.
"Enough to wage a small war," Qian Shuiting told Weiss. "If you hadn't encountered us, you'd have made a fortune on this shipment."
Weiss simply nodded. "Keep looking. King Solomon's treasures don't end here."
"You mean these?" Lin Chuanqing gestured toward crates hauled from the rear of the hold, along with devices that resembled rocket launchers. Lao Di's eyes widened. "Anti-tank missiles—Red Arrow 73!"
"Do you know how to use them?"
"No, but I've seen them in military exercises. These aren't just for tanks—they're equally effective against landing craft, speedboats, bunkers, whatever you need to destroy."
"These aren't the domestic Red Arrow 73," Gao Xiaosong noted. "They're definitely AT-3 series missiles. Look at the packaging—'Yugoimport-SDPR.' Is that the manufacturer?"
"Yugoimport-SDPR is Serbia's state-owned arms company." Weiss caught Lin Chuanqing's hand before he could crack open the airtight seal. "Wait until we're back at the base laboratory before you start tinkering with these."
"Twenty-four missiles total—shaped-charge and thermobaric warheads. Everything's accounted for. Count carefully. Miss nothing."
"The question is," someone asked, "who exactly are we planning to use these on?"
Like the disposable rocket launchers salvaged from the ship's cabin, this remained a puzzle without an obvious answer.
The 8154 cruiser sounded its whistle and led the modest fleet away from Dongsha Island. Jiang Shan found Weiss on the aft deck, leaning against the railing and watching the white foam churn in the propellers' wake.
He introduced himself briefly. The former mercenary gave a slight shake of his head. "I saw you that night in the interrogation room."
"This just came in." Jiang Shan produced a transcription sheet. "A congratulatory message from Chairman Wen to the entire salvage team. He mentioned you by name."
Weiss glanced at the paper and handed it back. "I can't read Chinese characters."
"You'd better learn."
"Chinese characters are too difficult." Rando flicked his cigarette butt into the sea. "But I'll try to learn to speak the language—it's the tongue of the transmigrators."
"What are your plans going forward?"
"Plans?" Weiss squinted at the rolling waves. "I'm broke now. I'd like to return to Macao and collect the six hundred silver pesos still owed to me."
"Li Siya won't hand over payment for nothing," Jiang Shan reminded him. "What are you prepared to trade for that money?"
"That depends entirely on what you want her to know—or what you want the Dutch to know. I'm more than happy to be of service in that regard."
Weiss suspected the Chinese intelligence chief approved of his answer, because a moment later Jiang Shan beckoned over a naval steward carrying a tray with a bottle of rum and two glasses.
"Let's have a drink," Jiang Shan said.
Weiss ignored the glass. Instead, he drew an engraved silver cup from his pocket—a trophy won from a wealthy but dim-witted Spanish gambler. During his days circulating through Macao's high society, he had often displayed this elegant goblet as evidence of his fabricated Italian noble heritage. Now he filled it with rum.
"What shall we drink to?"
"To our cause," Jiang Shan said.
"To our cause," Weiss murmured.
He tilted his head back and drained the cup in a single swallow. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the exquisite silver goblet over the railing and into the sea.